


When They Met

by integerOverflow



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Joan Watson - Freeform, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:49:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9630341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/integerOverflow/pseuds/integerOverflow
Summary: The episode when Sherlock and Joan first meet, as told from Sherlock's POV.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers! Please comment and review, and give constructive criticism where possible.

It was an old film, gauche. Filled with passionate love admissions, gossip, misinterpretation of feelings.

The second was even older; Casablanca, if he recalled correctly. He had very little idea why it was on his screen in the first place. Love stories bored him.

The third was the news- current affairs, a groomed man speaking in the camera. That he could appreciate, if only of the importance it held to his consultancy. Two more screens were flickering, a sure sign he needed to pay the electricity bills, yet the contents of them elude him.

It had been at that precise second, he heard the smooth, elegant voice of a woman saying, "Excuse me, Mr-"

His head cocked to side, assessing. He may or may not have shushed her; he did not remember. His mind was too fast, too rampant, already lacking onto the distinct jasmine-almond scent, the fashionable clothes, the wide, slanted eyes.

She stood there, an annoyance, a distraction from his data gathering. He felt himself lose thread of the perfect equilibrium he had achieved before, between his lightning fast, heroin deprived brain, and the constant source of stimuli that were the screens.

Perhaps she should be addressed.

He stood for a moment more, deciding, and then finally, with sure, determined movements he grabbed the controller, and switched everything off. The relief swept through him, sharp, exhilarating. That constant onslaught of information was heady and painful, all at the same time. A pale ghost of the glorious high he could achieve with narcotics.

He glanced up, and realized the distraction was still standing there. Annoyance niggled at him. She opened her mouth, and in childish malevolence, he began pacing. It seemed to waver her, make her unsure.

Good.

Five steps forward, turn. Forward, turn. Forward, turn.

The woman, who he ascertained was Chinese or more precisely Chinese-American, bit her lip. Good Lord, she was going to begin speaking again.

He sighed inwardly, and stopped, facing her. He didn't stare at her directly, but at an unknown spot to her right, onto the dusty floor. Staring at people let them know you acknowledged them as something of interest, and she was certainly no one of interest. Merely a disturbance in his sanctum sanctorum.

There was a large bag slung over a slim shoulder, and the previous jasmine-almond scent. He decided the jasmine was of more of a natural scent, whilst the other a chemical, wafting from her hands. A surgeon, he realized. Calluses were formed on her pale fingers, and the almond butter a leftover habit from her doctoring days, when hands had to be regularly and periodically washed, resulting in dry skin.

Features perfectly symmetrical, almost painfully so. Most likely considered beautiful by society.

He did not care. Beauty was entirely relative.

She smiled and there were laugh lines around her eyes. "My name is Joan Watson. I've been hired by your father to be your sober companion." She shuffled slightly, uncomfortable, despite the smile.

Perhaps it was the setting. The brownstone was dusty, dark; he had not opened the curtains. Perhaps she had seen the prostitute on her way out, and was unsettled by the encounter.

Perhaps, he blinked, he was not wearing a shirt.

Watson continued. "He told me he was going to e-mail you about me. I'm here to make the transition from your rehab experience to the routine of your everyday life . . ."

He zoned out. That film replayed again in his head, the man stupidly professing his love, the woman so bland, so unassuming. It felt as if Fate had dealt its hand as she finished speaking, and he opened his mouth.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" And was rewarded by the look of shock, quickly masked by practicality. He continued. "I know what you're thinking: the world is a cynical place, and I must be a cynical man, thinking a woman like you would fall for a line like that." He perfectly mimicked the ebb and flow of speech the actor had assumed in that terrible film.

"Thing is, it isn't a line, so, please hear me when I say this." The symmetrical/beautiful/he-did-not-care face blanked over.

"I have never loved anyone as I do you right now, in this moment."

He turned the correct screen on, and her suitcase dropped.

The scene replayed, and he had the satisfaction of watching faint colour blush her cheeks, as she scrabbled on the floor to collect her things. He did not help.

The last line finished, and he allowed himself a grin, throwing the controller down with a flourish. "Spot on." He murmured. Watson was now clutching her bag to herself. Excellent. 

He gave a smile, his more unpleasant one. "Sherlock Holmes." His eyes swept over her, taking in the defensive posture, the stubborn tilt of chin. This might be entertaining. "Please don't get comfortable. We won't be here long. "

***

She had begun talking again.

"Mr. Holmes, did your father tell you about me or not?"

Sherlock grimaced at the mention of his father, distaste curling his face. He nimbly dashed down the stairs, hearing the click clack of boots at his heels. What had she asked him?

Ah, yes, his father. "He e-mailed, said to expect some sort of addict-sitter."

Her answer was prompt, and crisp. No trace of the earlier embarrassment. "Well, then he explained his conditions with respect to your sobriety?"

He would have rolled his eyes if he cared enough. A formal, emotionless message had arrived, stating that he was either to accept the help of one Joan Watson or say goodbye to the brownstone. "If you mean his threats to evict me from this, the shoddiest and the least renovated of the five-- count them, five-- properties he owns in New York, then yeah, he made his conditions quite clear. I refuse your, quote-unquote, "help," I wind up on the street."

Truthfully, he could see why Morland Holmes wanted his youngest son to achieve some version of success in his life, given that he had been blessed with the same advantages as his older brother. And Mycroft Holmes, though bordering on the side of overweight and attaining nothing more than the title of a restaurant owner, was somehow the prize jewel of Holmes Sr.

Sherlock whirled around, "It's my understanding that most sober companions are recovering addicts themselves, but... you've never had a problem with drugs or alcohol." It was obvious- her eyes were clear, her hands steady, her hair still lustrous. There was no haunted look in her eyes, or the careful, somber longing all previous addict carried with them.

She narrowed her eyes at the question, and then shook her head slightly. “Your father told you.” This was said firmly.

Naturally, that was the conclusion she sprang to.

“Of course he didn't.”

She seemed unnerved, and annoyed. There was steel in her voice when she said, “Would you care to explain why you broke out of your rehab facility the same day you were being released?”

Before she had finished the sentence he was already answering. “Bored.”

Confusion this time. “You were bored?” Oh, he was right. Watson did have the capacity to be mildly entertaining.

“No, I am bored right now.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im sorry, ok? I have been away for a loooooooong time, and electrical devices had sadly not been at hand. Please, do comment and give constructive critisicm. Thank you very much for reading.

_“No, I am bored right now.”_

He grabbed a shirt from the pile and smelled it. "It happens often; you'll get used to it."

Determining it sufficiently clean, he pulled the shirt on, watching out of the corner of his eye as she read the inscription. "I am not lucky, I am good," it proclaimed.

"Regarding our mutual friends at Hemdale," he continued, "I'd say they should be thanking me for exposing the flaws in their rubbish security system, wouldn't you?"

Annoyance radiated of her. She opened her mouth, and then, seeming to have thought better of it, changed whatever she about to say to: "There was a woman leaving just as I got here- " yes, _of course_ , it always came back to the prostitute-

"Did she get you high?"

Ah. Joan Watson was doggedly assuming the role of an addict-sitter.

"About six feet." Sherlock answered earnestly. "I actually find sex repellent. All those fluids and all the sounds," As he talked, he grabbed the belt that had been tied to the ladder, along with the handcuffs. "My brain and my body require it to function at optimum levels, so I feed them as needed." He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she assumed a perplexed look, watched as that perplexed look morphed into one of disconcertion. Just to confound this Joan Watson further he said, "You're a doctor; you understand."

"I'm not doctor." So quick the denial. Interesting. Perhaps she could become his experiment? He filed the thought away.

For some inexplicable reason he felt the need to explain himself, to justify the inner workings of his mind. "Were a doctor-- a surgeon, judging by your hands."

He was about to go further, but no-stop. Stop.

Watson was not permanent. His experiment was forever destined to be a _little_ experiment. A change of subject was in order.

"Is your car parked nearby?"

"Uh, yes, it's just outsi- How did you know I had a car?"  
  
Again, again. That need to explain himself to this _female_. "Parking ticket- fell out of your purse when you dropped it. Can't have one without the other, can you?"

He grabbed a tweed vest from an armchair and buttoned it up.

"We're late. We need to get going,"

"Late for what?"

It felt very satisfying to ignore her.

Phone, phone, _phone_ \- ah, yes.

On the table, exactly where he left it before the prostitute had attempted to distract him. Attempted, being the key word there.

His eyes finally focussed on the screen in front of him. "Actually, scratch the car." Roadblocks had been established practically along every route. "Manhattan Bridge is down to a single lane. We'll take the tube instead."

She was stood there, a new, uninvited presence in his home. He couldn't resist it. Looking up, he gave a derisive glance around the living room. "Look at this place. Yuck. Can't wait for you to tidy it."

Sherlock revelled in her expression.  
***

"Prior to my stint in junkie jail, I worked as a consultant at Scotland Yard." They were on the subway, and he had managed to catalogue more data. Watson's stride was exactly 26 inches in heels, she almost imperceptibly favoured her left leg, and, to his surprise, her hands _shook_.

That had only heightened her attraction as a specimen. A surgeon, with tremors in her hands? In fact, a surgeon, who was no longer a surgeon, but a sober companion? That alone had been enough to hook him.

"Yes, your father told me-- he said you were a detective?"

"I was a consultant. I wasn't paid for my services, and therefore I answered to no one but myself."

He had believed in that, wholeheartedly. Until an insouciant blonde had strolled into his life, and he realised that was not true. That had never been true. He did not own himself anymore, not when he gave his heart away.

And then, of course, came the whole sordid mess after, with the pool of blood that had been so unquestionably _hers_ -

Her phone rang, a generic, flat tune. He jerked out of his reverie. Then, registering the ringtone, made a note to change it as quickly as possible.

"What about London?," she asked.

A quick glimpse of the caller ID revealed that it was her mother and- father? No, stepdad most likely. She had inherited very little from her mother in the question of looks, but for the facial structure. He could acknowledge the fact that both mother and daughter had knife-sharp cheekbones.

"What about it?"

"He told me that's where you bottomed out. He thinks something happened to you there-- he just doesn't know what."

He had almost forgotten that he was not only one doing the cataloguing. Watson was (not so) subtly enquiring as to what happened in London.

"Handsome woman, your mother. It's very big of her to take your dad back after the affair."

And just like that, London, with its pain and heartbreak, was forgotten. "How could you possibly-"

But he walked on, ignoring her. She would stew on that for a while.

They strolled along the strode along 1st Avenue, Watson trailing behind. Faint sirens filled the air. He felt his blood begin to buzz, veins flooded with adrenaline. This was it.

"You still haven't told me where we're going yet," he heard her call.

"About that, I think you and Father will be pleased to hear I have devised a post-rehab regimen for myself that'll keep me quite busy." He hadn't been sure if he would be ready yet, ready for the environment that was likely to bring memories of his last case on, his last failed case, all due to his inability to _think_ -

Their destination came into view. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I decided to resume my work as a consultant here in New York."

Despite everything, he felt . . . content. Or a version of it, anyway. Finally he had a sense of purpose, after wandering listlessly, absorbing needless data to stop his mind from eating itself alive.

The question was really, not if he was ready, but if New York was ready for him.  
***

 


End file.
